


Take my hand, hold it tight

by Agf



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Brent appearing in a shyan fanfic in the year of our lord 2020?, Ficlet, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agf/pseuds/Agf
Summary: In Ryan’s defence, the fact that he’s festively tanked has nothing to do with the injury he sustains after their beer pong win.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77
Collections: Skeptic Believer Book Club Advent Calendar





	Take my hand, hold it tight

**Author's Note:**

> For day 8 of the book club advent calendar! 
> 
> Title is from Phil Collins's ‘You'll be in my heart’. This will make sense when you've read the thing.

In Ryan’s defence, the fact that he’s festively tanked has nothing to do with the injury he sustains after their beer pong win. 

It’s a classic case of what Brent would argue is _correlation not causation, Ryan._ Correlation meaning: yes, he is tanked, and _yes_ , he does get his arm slammed against a wall in a way that makes him momentarily lightheaded. 

Causation, however, here meaning: Brent. 

Brent slams uncoordinatedly into Ryan’s body, and Ryan slams into the wall, and somewhere in all that something in his wrist twists and makes a sound like a _pop_. 

“Ow, fuck!” Ryan hisses, cradling it to his chest immediately. “Watch it, this is my throwing arm!” He moves to shake it out, and- oh, no. The wall semi-rushes at him again, a hot spike of pain shooting from his fingers to his elbow. 

Brent sees this, and winces. “Oh shit. Okay, wait, my work buddy Shane has- He was a boy scout, I think.” 

“A boy scout?” Ryan cradles his hand against his chest and scowls. “What’s he going to do, fisherman’s knot my fingers and call it a night?” 

Brent misses this excellent burn, because Brent is too busy towing Shane over from the loose group by the record player. 

Here’s the thing. Ryan knows of _Shane_. He’s noticed him before; all tall and funny. Tonight, he’s wearing a novelty reindeer headband. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, eyes bright, and he has a… a ridiculous face, overall. Sharp-angled nose and small eyes and a wonky smile and just. Ridiculous. 

Not quite ridiculous enough to ruin his night, but that’s only because Brent has already taken that particular honour with his bone-crushing attempt. 

“Hey! What’s up?” Shane asks. “I was in the middle of-” He looks between Brent and Ryan, at the way he’s holding himself, and stops grinning. “Ah. What do you need?”

“Ryan here slammed his arm- Wait, what did you say?" Brent demands. 

Ryan watches Shane’s gaze flick over to him, and feels his burn wither and die in his throat. “ _Nothing_ ,” he insists. 

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can’t seem to unpout his face. He bets Shane didn’t even see them win the beer pong tournament in the first place, which _sucks_. He probably thinks Ryan is just a clumsy drunk, and not what he is - an athlete shot down in his prime. “And _I_ didn’t try and break my arm, _you_ did.” 

Brent holds up his perfectly-uninjured hands and steps back out of Shane’s way. “You did that first aid thing, I remember.” 

Shane snorts and scratches at his head. “I did the work seminar on it, yeah, because they gave us a free lunch. I can put you in the recovery position if you’re going into shock. Are you going into shock, Ryan?” 

Ryan doesn’t think he’s going into shock. But then, he isn’t entirely sure he knows what shock feels like. “Isn’t that the one you famously can’t self-diagnose?” he asks. 

“Got me there.” Shane smiles at him, a reassuring sort of smile, and Ryan’s chest does a funny flip. 

_Shock?_ He thinks, hopefully. 

“I can probably check to see if it’s broken,” Shane offers. He glances around them, at all the people crammed up against one another. “Maybe better to go outside. If it’s broken, we can get you an Uber to the ER.” 

“Sure,” Ryan nods. He waits for Shane to walk out ahead of him, and turns to give Brent a parting glare. 

Brent, however, doesn’t look like he’s suffering under the guilt. He just raises a glass and mouths, 'Merry Christmas', only grinning wider when it's clear that Shane spots him and ducks from the room.

And what, exactly, is that supposed to imply? 

*****

Shane lowers himself to the doorstep with a quiet huff and waits for Ryan to sit beside him. They’re close enough that their knees knock. 

“Okay. Come here.” Shane takes Ryan’s wrist gently between his long, _long-_ fingered hands and twists it first one way, then the other. 

Left is fine, right makes him wince hard enough that Shane stops immediately, just laying his palm along the length of Ryan’s wrist. 

Ryan sounds strangled, mostly because of the injury, when he demands, “Are you trying to _Tarzan_ me?”

“I have literally no idea what that could mean,” Shane replies after a moment. 

Ryan reclaims his hand so he can prop it up, like he’s waiting for a high-five. “You know,” he says, nodding at it. “Like in Tarzan. You Shane. Me Ryan. Just- give me your hand, man, you know what I mean.” 

Shane does as instructed. His fingers are warm, and long enough that he can curl the tops of them over Ryan’s, which he does. 

“Does this hurt?” Shane asks, quietly. His eyes are very bright. 

“No.” 

“I’m going to push. Tell me if it hurts.” 

Slowly, gently, Shane puts pressure against Ryan’s palm, encouraging him to bend his wrist back. Ryan makes it to a thirty-degree angle before he taps out. 

When he looks back at Shane, his face is much closer than Ryan had realised. He swallows. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?” he asks. He's fascinated watching the twitch of a smile on Shane’s lips. 

“Well, it’s not broken. Just a sprain, I think.” 

Ryan nods. The fresh air is making him feel drunker. Or maybe that’s the adrenaline. Or Brent's wink. Or Shane noticing Brent's wink and coming outside anyway. 

“So there’s nothing you can do?” he asks. 

“I can’t, you’ll need…” Shane glances up into Ryan’s face again, and something of Ryan’s inner turmoil must show on his face, because he smiles again, bright and surprised. The stupid reindeer antlers slip lower, and Ryan settles them back into place with his free hand. 

From inside, the muffled opening lines of _White Christmas_ filter through the closed door. It’s not snowing, but Ryan feels like it sort of, y’know, _is._ Metaphorically. 

“Christmas magic?” Shane suggests, grinning. “Wish upon a star?” 

“So Tarzan stumped you, but _Pinocchio_ is fine?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shane insists. Then he ducks down and presses his lips to the centre of Ryan’s wrist, purposeful as his earlier touches. 

Ryan swallows. His fingers twitch, curling in on themselves unbidden. It’s- It shouldn’t feel good, is the thing. Like Shane’s little smile and stupid antlers shouldn’t make him feel anything, like crushing his arm shouldn’t feel more and more like a win. He should laugh it off. 

“Better?” Shane asks. 

Ryan, a little dazed, only nods. “Better,” he confirms. 


End file.
